0:2:23: The initial conditions still bunch up at 'entele(ma)chy' [sic] speeds leashing to the middle of the end (a figure-8 shaped dipole with radiation vectors delineated by the ribs of Noah's wife, now known as LUCirce (a seeded incarnation of mitochondrial eve). The original expedition was not geographical in nature but 1 of bootstrapped salvation. Via «cariboulean logic» (the same rhizomatic force that drives antler growth), each idea bifurcated & accumulated in a mass swarm of junk DNA, circumscribing our psychogeographical space.
0:2:24: Said logic is waterlogged in an arcade database. The water remains liquid but crystallized in formation, perpetually seeding the DB. The idea of the ark becomes a lotus flower to turtle. LUCirce's footprint becomes a naturally eroding formation, each pixelated grain populates the DB. The integrity of the DB is clouded by the oversaturation of nocturnal emissions leading some to auto-asphyxiate as a last resort to endless phylogenic recapitulation. Bush doctor sells the fresh caterpillars «straight from the cocoon. Read it in the N-E-W-S.»
0:2:25: We pee in the snow & rediscover calculus, re-rendered in the darkness nevertheless, gazing up at the borealis. Once expressed, the formation freezes & fuses into a crimson chrysalis. Post-holes are bored for narwhals to breathe. The fallout is an ever-morphing alphabet never lasting long enough to crystallize. Only the chaffing from clutching the reins remains. Every word once articulated is at once extinguished, perpetuating self-defeat since before Roman times. «My, my ...» we say but it isn't what we say but how we say it.
0:2:26: We are free to jury-rig, lathering ourselves in leopard seal lard & zipping our sleeping bags together to form one cocoon. When the zipper skips between S & P orbitals, sparks emit that ricochet within our BwO, unreleased. Our probability potential is self-contained so it makes no sense to speak of forces external to our system. Even these words are nebulous approximations—words can't pinpoint an idea but only render angular momentum around an idea. As in tetherball, there are only two directions—clockwise or counterclockwise.
0:2:27: This is justice on ice. We are just waiting for us to happen independently of ourselves, to put an «i» in voice. We live still under the auspices of a diorama to preserve our psychogeography, playing tetherball for entertainment. Winter solstice fast approaches, when the ceiling will open just enough to let in/out 1 pole of light. Some say north, but direction to or from the pole is meaningless. To an external observer looking into the light we move collectively as a CCW current. This page is only a cross-section of the event-space.
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